Chapter 3

I wasn't the only person living in the Hastings mansion.

If the others refused to conserve, my frugality meant absolutely nothing.

If I couldn't cut back, my only option was to bleed through my savings until I was broke.

Except I barely had any savings to begin with.

To plug the massive financial sinkhole created by the Hastings, I had to scramble for side gigs.

At my peak, I juggled three jobs a day.

In the morning, I sweated inside a suffocating mascot costume, handing out flyers outside shopping plazas.

In the afternoon, I stood for hours as an in-store brand promoter at supermarkets.

At night, I set up a small folding table at the local night market to sell handmade jewelry.

I worked myself to the bone, barely scraping together enough cash to cover the weekly household payments.

I kept telling myself to just grit my teeth and push through—everything would get better once my corporate job officially started.

But before that day arrived, my body gave out first.

I collapsed on the sidewalk and was rushed to the ER by a kind stranger.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I heard the doctor speaking with the good Samaritan.

He explained that I was suffering from severe malnutrition and acute physical exhaustion, but with proper rest and nutrition, I would recover.

After the kind stranger left, my mother finally sauntered into the room with Gemma trailing behind her.

Wrinkling her nose at the smell of antiseptic, she scoffed, "What on earth is wrong with you now? How did you end up in the hospital over nothing?"

The doctor repeated the diagnosis: "The patient is severely malnourished and overworked. She needs high-calorie, nutritious meals and plenty of bed rest once she's discharged."

"Malnourished?"

My mother’s voice instantly went sharp. "Riley, stop acting like I'm starving you!"

"Ever since you moved in, our kitchen has been serving prime rib, fresh seafood, and gourmet meals every single night! How could you possibly be malnourished?"

A bitter, cold laugh bubbled in my throat.

Sure, the Hastings mansion served gourmet spreads every evening.

Too bad I actually needed the "time" to sit down and eat it.

Thanks to her beloved expense-splitting scheme, I was out working every waking second of the day, except for the few hours I slept.

Most days, I was so busy running between gigs that taking a sip of water was a luxury.

If that wasn't textbook neglect and abuse, what was?

Yet, I didn't bother arguing with her.

I knew she was only making a scene to save face in front of the hospital staff.

She still had my legal papers.

Between petty emotional venting and cold, hard reality, I knew which one mattered more to my survival.

Gemma chimed in with a sweet, delicate voice, "Mom, please don't be mad. I understand Riley. She probably just faked being sick because she wanted a little more attention from us."

My mother snapped back:

"Attention? Haven't we given her enough attention?"

"Ever since she came back, the entire household has practically revolved around her!"

The more she spoke, the angrier she got. She glared down at my hospital bed. "Riley, let me ask you: after everything we've done for you, what else could you possibly want?"

I looked down at the scratchy hospital blanket.

No excuses. No reply.

My mother pointed an accusing finger at me. "Don't think your silence gets you off the hook for faking an illness. This is a severe moral flaw!"

A chill ran down my spine.

Had she really favored Gemma to such a delusional extent?

To my mother, a casual, manipulative sentence from Gemma carried far more authority than an objective medical diagnosis from an actual physician.

Just because Gemma claimed I was "faking it," my character was instantly dragged through the mud.

My fingertips went numb with cold.

I lifted my gaze, my expression completely flat. "If my character is so deeply flawed, why did you even bother bringing me back?"

Caught off guard, a flicker of panic flashed across her eyes.

"Is that how you speak to your parents after all those years of college education?"

Unable to answer the question, she pivoted to deflecting.

It was the classic playbook of the guilty.

I didn't bother pressing her further.

"As punishment for your deceit, you are paying this entire hospital bill yourself. Not a single cent will be shared through our household plan."

A faint smirk crossed my lips.

I had never expected her to pay anyway; her reaction was entirely within my calculations.

"What are you smiling at?"

Seeing my smirk, her annoyance flared up again.

"Riley, I've forgotten more about the real world than you'll ever know."

"I'm warning you: drop the little mind games and dirty tricks. Next time, it won't be as simple as making you pay your own medical bills."